by Jayna Vixen
“Yeah, Kathy. Sorry about the late hour. I’ll do extra chores, okay?” Dax stood up and stretched, conscious that Mrs. Bodecker hadn’t moved. He sighed.
“That’s not what this is about, Daxter. You aren’t listening. There’s been a letter from the school. Apparently, you’re not graduating?”
Oh, fuck. Guess the shit is really hitting the fan now.
“Doug will be home later, and he’s going to be mad, Dax. You’ve already had the detention and the incident with that…that Trishelle girl. According to the letter they sent, you’ve quit school? You’ve broken all the rules. You know that that means in our house?!”
Yeah, he knew. Three strikes. He was out.
Even though Dax would turn eighteen soon, the deal was that he could stay with his foster family until he graduated. Now that he wasn’t likely to do that, he was shit outta luck. The state offered some sort of transitional program for kids like him who had aged out of the system, but there was no way he was going back to that.
“Dax, I want to help you. You’ve been here for three years, and you’ve come so far. I’m not sure what happened. You were doing so well.” The disappointment in her voice pained him, but he was used to hearing that tone from adults in his life.
She continued to ramble but Dax tuned her out; it was a skill he had grown very good at. He just mentally checked out. He wouldn’t be there for Bodecker’s lecture. That much was certain. Dax walked straight past Kathy Bodecker, who reached a hand out to touch his shoulder. He flinched, hard. She gasped, withdrawing her hand. The look of utter desolation on her face gave him pause. At the very least, he owed her an explanation.
“Look, Kathy. I really appreciate all you have done for me. You provided a safe haven and I’ll never forget it. But, I have to forge my own path, and school isn’t going to get me where I need to go. I can’t pretend any longer.”
He moved to walk past her and was surprised when Kathy Bodecker launched herself into his arms for a fierce hug. “Maybe I didn’t tell you enough, Daxter,” she said, her voice hinging on a sob, “but I care about you.”
Dax pulled her in for a hug. She seemed to frail and small all of a sudden, almost like she was the one who needed the caretaking. “I know you do, Mrs. B. Thank you for everything.”
Kathy Bodecker squeezed him so tight she almost took the air from his lungs before releasing him. “I’ll talk to Doug. Maybe Mr. Maxwell can bend the rules if you do some extra work.”
Dax nodded, avoiding her hopeful eyes. He recalled Maxwell’s offer and he wouldn’t be taking the principal up on it. Dax was done. He was done pretending. He was no college boy in training. As wild as his night had been, he had never felt more alive than he had in that biker bar. He wanted, no, needed to belong. The lie flowed effortlessly from his mouth: “I’ll see you at dinner, Mrs. B.”
***
It felt weird to be riding his two-wheeler with all of his worldly possessions on his back. Dax smiled at the fleeting images of turtles and hermit crabs that ran through his mind as he pedaled down the main road. He stashed his backpack and duffle behind a rock and engaged in a surf session that blew his mind. He lost track of time taking wave after wave, marveling in the glassy sets that rolled in, seeming to congratulate him on his emancipation. When he finally emerged from the ocean, he was fucking freezing, and he realized he hadn’t taken a crucial item with him when he fled the Bodecker’s place like a fugitive. A towel.
It was spring, but the evening was anything but warm. Dax’s teeth were chattering as he headed to the only other place that felt familiar to him. He was too nervous to go in, though, so he stowed his bike in the alley and hugged the cement wall, willing it to somehow heat him. A rustling came from the dumpster startled him at first, but then Dax was grateful for the momentary distraction. Whatever was in there, at least he wasn’t alone.
He shivered, feeling a soft cloud of misery begin to weigh him down. Reality was setting in. Dax had nowhere to go, and he was too afraid to waltz into Lenny’s like he belonged there. A mournful wail came from the dumpster, followed by a hiss and a screech. Dax chose to ignore his own discomfort in order to aid the obviously distressed feline in the trash.
The dumpster fuckin’ reeked but Dax hauled his salty, shivering body up to peer inside anyway. The stench was almost overwhelming. The trash was illuminated by dim light. At the bottom of the bin was a highly agitated cat. He seemed to be stuck, wedged into the corner behind a flattened box. The cat struggled pitifully. Maybe the box was too high for the creature to climb over. Dax sighed heavily and then heaved himself into the stinking dumpster to rescue it. No neglected creature would go uncared for on his watch.
“You motherfucker!” he swore, as said creature inflicted a series of slashes to his wrist. “I’m trying to help you!”
“Curly!” Lenny’s voice echoed into the dark alley as Dax wrestled with a very angry, and very bedraggled cat.
Finally, Dax managed to grab the hissing animal and yank it free of the twine it was entangled in.
“Dax?” A curious, amused face peered into the wretched, trash-filled container.
“Lenny.” he responded tiredly. “Is this…thing…yours?” He held the enraged ball of fur as though it were a venomous snake.
“I’ve been looking for her for a week! Shit, Curly, are you okay?”
The burly bartender reached for his cat with uncharacteristic tenderness as Dax lurched from the stinking dumpster, brushing remnants of last night’s extravaganza from his now-ruined clothing. The cat, Curly, flew into his owner’s arms, bringing a child-like smile to Lenny’s pockmarked face.
“Hey, kid, you’re worth your salt, that’s for sure,” Lenny said, looking up at him. Then his eyes narrowed as he took in Dax’s appearance. “Are you okay?”
Dax hated to admit that he wasn’t but his ragged condition was pretty obvious. Luckily, Lenny didn’t need verbal confirmation. Without a word, he ushered Dax into the bar and up the back stairs. Dax was surprised to find small, over-crammed single apartment sitting inconspicuously above the bar.
“You live here? At the bar?”
“Well, yeah, it kind of makes sense. Crow and the guys like to be able to stop in at all hours of the day or night. It’s the least I could do.”
At that comment, Dax had to wonder how Lenny had become involved with The Phantoms.
“Why are you all wet?” Lenny looked pointedly at Dax’s damp clothing and hair.
Dax shrugged sheepishly, grateful to be inside. “Went surfing. Forgot a towel.”
“And you decided to hang in the alley rescuing my poor Curly here, instead of heading home to warm up?”
There was a probing undertone to Lenny’s query, one that beckoned Dax to open his mouth and let every detail of his pathetic life story pour out. Instead, he gazed at Lenny for a long moment and then looked away, unsure of how to communicate his current predicament. Again, Lenny seemed to know not to pressure him for a story. Instead, he retrieved a towel from the closet and tossed it to Dax.
“Shower’s that way kid. Warm up. I’ll take care of Curly downstairs.” It was odd to see such a big man showing such care for the animal, but in a way, Lenny’s behavior was reassuring. He had a good heart, despite his gruff exterior.
Dax only hesitated for a minute before making his way to the bathroom. It wasn’t as nasty as he had expected, but Lenny was no clean freak. Still, the warm water cascading over him was successful in smoothing the chill from his bones and the stink from his skin and hair. He toweled off, sniffing his reeking clothes with disgust. What the fuck was I thinking?! Dax had few belongings to begin with and he felt guilty taking off with the things the Bodeckers had purchased for him. He had only taken the bare minimum in terms of clothing and toiletries, plus his journal of course.
Sighing at his half-baked plan, Dax pulled his spare jeans on and padded back into the small sitting area, thinking he was alone.
“Hey, kid.”
The man they called Crow sat on Lenny’s co
uch, rolling a fat joint on the coffee table. Dax froze, feeling somewhat exposed. He was, after, half-naked. “Hey.”
“Lenny tells me you rescued his piece of shit cat. That thing scratched the hell outta me last time I tried to peel him out of that dumpster.”
“Yeah. I guess I should have thought ahead. My clothes are kind of ruined.” Dax turned away, to smooth his spiky blond hair in Lenny’s mirror.
Schooled by years of unpredictability when it came to people and situations, Dax never turned his back on someone without keeping some kind of tabs on them. He made sure he could see Crow’s reflection clearly as he tamed his unruly mane. The Phantoms’ president looked up casually from his busy work and as his eyes slid over Dax’s back, they narrowed suddenly. Then, he stood up Dax could tell he was taking a closer look, although he feigned nonchalance. Dax turned quickly to his backpack and fished a spare tee shirt from it, wanting to shield his scars from the other man. Crow had clearly seen the thin white lines and circular indentations that decorated Dax’s back, and he had recognized the marks for what they were.
Dax stiffened, unsure what to expect when he finally met Crow’s gaze. Most people either didn’t notice the wretched symbols of his past or they simply pretended they weren’t there. It was easier that way, for both Dax and whomever happened to get a glimpse of his back. He didn’t like being reminded of his abuse, and he certainly didn’t want anyone’s pity. For some reason, he didn’t want Crow to view him or his situation as pathetic, even though it was. He wasn’t a whipping boy any longer. No, he was a fuckin’ man, now. To Dax’s surprise, the tattooed biker held a great deal of compassion in his eyes as their gazes met. A kind of mutual understanding flashed between them and suddenly Dax knew that whatever kind of hell he himself had been through, Crow had been there too. Dax looked back, his eyes steady, as Crow fired up the joint and passed it over to him.
“Got a proposition for you, kid.”
Dax took a long, slow drag, letting the sweet smoke enter his lungs and dull his brain. “I’m listening.”
***
Dax looked around himself with more than a hint of wonder. He stood in a small room with wood paneled walls. The space was tiny-just large enough to house a mattress and a night table. A dusty lamp sat on the table, its shade yellow with age. A rectangular, screen-less window large enough to climb out of opened onto a large, grassy yard. Dax could see beer cans littering the ground out there, clustered around a huge black and white flag that proclaimed, “The Phantoms.”
The space was tiny, but it was his for the time being. His own place. Who would have thought that taking a chance on an animal in distress would lead to this?! Crow had spoken softly, his eyes taking on a faraway glint as he had offered Dax a place with the crew. Well, not as a member, but as a grunt with a place to call home until he had figured things out a bit.
I came up hard, too. But, I don’t let the scars of my past hold me back. You get what I’m saying kid? A lot of us got stuck with a shitty set of cards. That don’t mean you lay down and take it. It means you stand up stronger. Me, the club, we stand together. We’re a family. Everybody needs a family. You look like you could use one right about now.
“Got any questions, kid?”
His eyes were uncharacteristically wet but Dax managed to avoid shedding a tear, even though Crow’s willingness to give him what he had never had nearly overcame him. The man was a veritable stranger. A fierce ball of loyalty began to churn in the pit of his stomach as he accepted the older man’s generosity. I’ll never let him down!
“Why do they call you Crow?”
“Me and my army buddies were called the Night Crows. But, that’s a story for another time and a lot more grass.”
***
He had a little time to kill, what with no school and being newly accepted into the clubhouse. Crow said he would have more stuff to do later if he proved himself, but for now, Dax was basically considered a grunt--the lowest caste of wannabe crew members. He was the youngest one there and he had nothing but Crow’s word to vouch for his allegiance, but Dax knew that he would never bite the tattooed hands that had decided to feed him. Lenny liked him, especially so after he had jumped in a pile of stinking trash to rescue Curly, so he’d be helping out at the bar until something else came up. Dax could live with that. He smiled to himself, stretching out on the worn mattress. A place of my own. My very own place. With The Phantoms, no less! It was more than he could have ever hoped for, even if he had no idea what he was getting himself into.
Dax took stock of his new digs immediately. The communal shower and toilet was located just down the hall. Some of the rooms were bigger and some had their own bathrooms. Dax figured those were for the original club members. Even though most of them had their own homes, each guy had his own space in the clubhouse, which from the outside looked like an old warehouse. It was a pretty cool set up, all in all. Dax closed his eyes. What a long, unusual, and utterly amazing day.
***
After a few days with the club, Dax fell into a nice routine. He slept in late, then spent his day doing busy work around the clubhouse until one of the guys shuttled him to the bar. Dax generally worked until the wee hours of the morning, cleaning, stocking ice, and looking after that damned cat. Funny name for a bald fuckin’cat! Once the creature was clean, Dax was shocked to find out that Curly was completely hairless. The cat had no hair on him whatsoever. His skin was mostly pink and he had large ears that made him look like a wombat or something. Dax had no idea where Lenny had come across such a freaky-looking animal. Lenny said he was some special, expensive breed but that he was worth more to him than money. Even though Curly drove Dax nuts, he developed a fondness for the miscreant. Curly didn’t seem to mind Dax either, and had taken to meowing a loud greeting upon his arrival each night.
Crow seemed to take him under his metaphorical wing. At first, Dax wasn’t sure if he should trust the man, but Crow seemed pretty down to earth, and blunt too. He was a guy you took at face value. Hawk didn’t take shit from anyone either. Dax soon discovered that the vice president was known as kind of a loose cannon. While Crow wore the President patch, it was easy to see that Hawk handled the details and kept the guys in line.
It was Friday night. The crew was in a celebrating mood, but Dax wasn’t sure why. Probably something to do with Loony and his guns. From his short time with the crew, he had garnered that they were into some no-so-legal activities. The fact didn’t bother him. Fuck the rules. Of all the guys, however, Loony was the only one who made Dax’s internal alarm bells ring. There was something about the guy he just didn’t trust, and he had picked up on it the very first night he had seen the man. Crow seemed to like the guy though, making Dax feel guilty for his unfavorable thoughts. The inner circle poured in from whatever deal they had obviously just brokered, filling the air with a tangible excitement.
“Well, boys, we’re in the big leagues now!”
Dax noted that a few of the older guys looked uncomfortable at Crow’s proclamation, but everyone raised their glasses of bootleg brandy nonetheless. Then, Crow, Hawk, and Loony disappeared into a private room next to the bar. The night wore on, loud and fast. At one point, two chicks got into it, and Lenny intervened. Dax and couple of the other guys watched with interest as the bartender separated the two hair-pulling, screeching broads.
“Fighting over cock. Never thought I’d see the day,” Crow said, materializing behind Dax with a beer in his hand.
Dax quirked his brow. “Seriously?”
Crow chuckled. “Fucking Phantom stalkers will do anything to get under an original.” He took a long swig of his beer.
Some of them didn’t mind getting under a grunt, either, as Dax soon found out. Or on top of him. After a few months, he had quite a reputation with the ladies. The ease with which the panties came off around Dax became a running joke around the bar, and although he was a grunt, his sexual prowess earned him the grudging respect of most of the crew.
***
<
br /> Six Months Later
Dax had never felt so…useful. It was amazing how a bunch of rough-looking bikers could be so supportive. He was learning a lot, but it wasn’t like being in school. Gray showed him how to use a wrench and soon he was helping with repairs rather than just washing the bikes. Working with his hands made Dax feel productive in a way he had never felt before. He aligned the tailpipe perfectly, looking up as a large black van roared into the dirt lot in front of the warehouse. A bunch of the crew piled out, and began removing heavy crates from the back. Hawk strolled over to him, and watched as Dax tightened the last bolt on his new, custom exhaust.
“Nice job, kid. Thanks.” Hawk pulled on a pair of black leather gloves and held a second pair out to Dax as he stood up and stuck the wrench in his back pocket. “Ever shot a rifle?”
Dax felt his eyes widen and the grin spread over his face. He had seen plenty of weapons but he had never handled one. Like most young guys filled with testosterone, he jumped at the chance to shoot a real, live gun. It turned out he was pretty good at shooting stuff. Dax had natural aim and excellent hand-eye coordination. He spent the afternoon testing all kinds of different pieces with a few of the other grunts. He was accurate and steady, not wavering from his shot even when the others purposely tried to disrupt his concentration. Of all of the weapons, the Glock 45 felt the most comfortable in his hand, almost like it was made for him.
Crow was quickly becoming a kind of father figure to Dax. The man had lost his little boy to a heart condition, and Dax wondered if that was what had compelled the older man to help him out in the first place. Crow made sure Dax was comfortable, happy, that sort of thing. At first, Dax didn’t realize that Crow had singled him out, but it soon became apparent that the president didn’t invite any of the other grunts to his table to look at war memorabilia or trade stories.
Some of the other grunts didn’t like that they were friends, probably because his relationship with the president of the crew inadvertently lent Dax some status that a rookie grunt just hadn’t earned. Lately, more often than not, another grunt was charged with hauling ice and trash so Dax could join Crow’s table and crack jokes or roll their joints. He was particularly good at that--he rolled ‘em up tighter than anyone in the club.